


So the Moon Trembles

by JPeterson



Series: Silver Waters [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPeterson/pseuds/JPeterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a terrible thing to be left behind and unable to do anything but worry, but their victory - and the Inquisitor's return - is worth every moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Fear

**Author's Note:**

> This follows 'And the Ocean […]' (damned, overlong titles), albeit with a shift in tense, for which I apologize. I started this out in past tense, but had to correct slips into present so much that I switched to using that entirely; when it happens that often, the story usually fares better for me just bending to its will.
> 
> We're sticking to both Josephine's POV and the third person perspective, though, so hopefully the change isn't too jarring.
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> For angst, because it's a terrible thing to be left behind and unable to do anything but worry.

Time, Josephine learned long ago, is a fickle thing. Often it moves entirely too fast, while at other times, it slows to such a crawl that the sun itself actually seems to move _backwards_ in its steady path across the sky. Other times again it appears to freeze entirely, and right in this moment – which, in her opinion, has lasted _at least_ a year – she swears that not a leaf has stirred since she lost sight of the small party of horses heading for the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Or what remains of it, beneath the second breach in the sky.

(There had been another moment before that; an endless one captured in a single glance directly into her soul from over a shoulder covered in gleaming metal. It had been as blue as ice and yet filled with a dozen kinds of warmth; it had been a glance meant to reassure.

It hadn't worked.)

As a diplomat by trade, patience is most assuredly one of Josephine's strongest suits. And yet, in spite of having no shortage of tasks to throw herself into (Skyhold is still bustling with activity since only a handful of people had left, but it is a heavy, oppressive bustle, filled with hesitant looks upwards and questions that are never fully asked), she is feeling decidedly restless.

It seems, at least, to be a recurring theme among the inner circle. Commander Cullen has inspected the remaining soldiers three times in the past two hours. Leliana has taken to wandering the battlements rather than wait for her birds at the top of the tower. Blackwall practically has his head buried in his woodworkings, Iron Bull is having Varric beat him about the head with a staff under Cole's curious gaze, and while she isn't quite sure exactly what Vivienne and Solas are up to, Josephine is reasonably certain that it is the most intense session of reading that she herself has ever seen.

Everyone is preparing; ostensibly for victory – for a celebration – but also, beneath the not-so-hidden buzz of anxiety, they are preparing for the worst. For the Inquisitor to fail, for Corypheus to appear while their armies are still marching, and for the world to be swallowed up by darkness.

Josephine has ordered the supplies for the celebration days in advance, and today (when it was a choice between her working or her locking Ellana up some place safe and damn the consequences) she has requested their kitchen staff to pull out all the stops and prepare a feast fit for kings. The smells that waft along the castle halls are delicious, and yet nothing about them can entice her unusually acrobatic stomach into considering even the smallest bite of food.

Now, she walks across the high path to Cullen's quarters (there are news regarding the returning armies; not important ones, but it's better than sitting behind her desk and _not_ _thinking_ ), and she is halfway there and directly above the uneasily shifting crowd when she hears the cry.

“Look!”

Josephine's insides lurch uncomfortably, and only repeat the motion when that first cry is followed by more; by gasps and the sight of bodies freezing as they stare at the skies. Somewhere ahead of her, a heavy door slams into stone with a _bang_ that whisks away on the breeze, and she doesn't want to look but she _has to_ , so she tells herself that the breach is sealed; that a wall of light is coming at them, exactly like the first time. That all is well.

Massive chunks of the earth and the mountains are floating into the heavens, and even from here, she can see the eerie flashes of green light. Somewhere below her, a child starts crying, and all is most certainly _not well_.

Troop movements. Josephine looks away and resumes walking; one hand curling much too tightly around the message in her grasp and her nails biting into her palm. Letters, preparations, _action_. Of any kind.

Don't think. Just do.

xXxXx

Leliana has moved into Josephine's office. It's easier this way, she says, for the two of them to work together when they don't have to trot up and down the stairs in order to do so. Josephine knows the real reason, of course, but doesn't question it. Leliana is protective – even more so now – and she is honestly glad of the extra hum of activity. Of the additional distraction from the _silence_.

Her work is too easy and demands entirely too little thought on her part. It comes naturally to her; as natural as how her lungs move to take in breath without prodding, and as natural as how Ellana's fingers fit between h--

 _Maker_ . Her fingers clench around the pen, and this time she _does_ have to remind herself to breathe. The language of Orlais fills the paper in front of her, but the words and letters swim before her eyes, and she forgets what the point of this missive even was long before the ink drips from her pen and spatters across the neat writing.

Like a drop of blood, she thinks. Or a tear.

“I think I could do with some air,” Leliana says, and Josephine jolts from her thoughts to see the paper pushed aside and the spymaster standing before her. “Care to join me?”

There were scouts in here just seconds ago, weren't there? Where did they go?

“Josie?”

Leliana is shielding the sofa from her sight, but only partially, and while it isn't the _right_ sofa, she hasn't been able to even glance in the direction of the Inquisitor's quarters.

“ _Perhaps I should have composed a ballad, then. Or sent roses.”_

“Yes,” she decides, before she can sink too far into thoughts of that gentle, exasperated look, or wonder if she'll have the chance to see it again. “Some fresh air would be nice.”

They avoid the garden entirely, but they do spend an inordinate amount of time in the chapel.

xXxXx

Skyhold is entirely too quiet when Inquisitor Lavellan is out. It's an odd idea, to say the least; Ellana never takes more than three or four people with her when she leaves, and yet, the ancient castle seems to hold its breath from the moment she exits the gates until her footsteps carry her up the stairs to the great hall once more. They're such distinctive footsteps, too, Josephine has learned after many a time spent listening to them pace around her office. They're light, which isn't surprising given the Inquisitor's slight build, and a cross – somehow – between Leliana's near-silent tread and Cullen's striding march; soft, but full of purpose.

Ellana isn't a noisy person (except for those few times with Sera; Josephine's clothes took _ages_ to dry out, but it was impossible to stay angry when faced with those pale eyes and the playful spark in them). In fact, she would go so far as to call her the opposite. Her breathing is almost completely silent, and even her voice is generally low and soft in ways entirely disproportionate to the weight her words carry when she chooses to use them.

So it isn't the lack of noise that makes Skyhold feel so still, but rather the lack of _presence_. Even after a bare day.

Josephine holds the image of armor and torchlight and blue eyes closer than she can ever remember holding any memory before. She cradles the remembered feel of warm skin, the scent of vandal arias hidden beneath the burning pitch, the faint touch of a kiss to her palm and the small smile cast half in shifting shadows as they found some measure of privacy behind a wall.

“ _I'll be back before you know it.”_

She's going to have to scold her for such a blatant lie. If she gets the chance to.

“Sister Nightingale!” Hard, hurried steps pound against the stone, and even through the thickness of the closed door, the call is audible. Leliana is on her feet and halfway across the room in the blink of an eye, and Josephine herself is up and around the desk before she realizes it.

“It's fortunate that we aren't running a stealth operation at this time,” Leliana tells the scout pointedly when the door swings open, and leans against a pillar on one shoulder. “By now, I doubt there's a soul in Skyhold who doesn't realize that there are news.”

News. Mostly, it feels as if there's not enough air in the room, but that can't be right.

The scout flushes abruptly and bends her neck; offering up a narrow, tiny roll of paper in one hand. “Forgive me, Sister. It won't happen again.”

There is a tension in Leliana's shoulders that Josephine knows well; one of reprimand and discipline, for although the scout is young – barely a woman at all – there are things that even the least experienced of them _must_ know. Still, there is a moment where the spymaster looks back and their eyes meet, and then... a shift. A change, subtly, in Leliana's eyes, and the tension dissipates in a sigh.

“See to it that it doesn't,” she says instead, and dismisses the scout with a wave of her hand. In her other hand, of course, is the message, and all Josephine can think of is that the paper looks inordinately tiny for all the weight it's placing on her chest.

Breathing is very difficult.

“Here.” A hand in her view, and – when she looks up in confusion – a bare, fond roll of Leliana's eyes. “Read it,” the spymaster tells her, and carefully places the small, unopened missive in Josephine's hand. “You're making my guts ache just from looking at you.”

News. What kind, she wonders, and picks at the thread holding the rolled paper closed with trembling fingers. She hears the whispers in the corners of Skyhold; hears the murmurs of how this started with a sacrifice, so why shouldn't it end with one? The Herald already cheated death so many times, and how can anyone keep doing so in the face of those odds?

Briefly, Josephine wonders if she'll unravel before the paper does. It's close.

Her hands are shaking too much for her to be able to read the message, so Leliana ends up gently prying it from her fingers. Josephine thinks it gentle, anyway, but the only thing that truly resounds in her mind with any sort of clarity is how thoroughly unable she is to think at all, because there are _too many_ thoughts; too many fears and hopes and terrors at what that innocuous piece of paper might contain.

_She's alive. She's dead. They're coming – run. I love you – see you soon._

“Josie.” It takes the hand on her shoulder to make her realize that she's shaking _all over_ , and she spends several frozen moments wondering why Leliana's face is nothing but a washed-out blur of colors before it hits her that she's crying. “It's alright.” The hand on her shoulder becomes a secure arm around her back, and there's another hand gently wiping at her eyes before it moves to hold the message up in front of her instead. “Just read it.”

The paper isn't shaking and her vision – for the time being – isn't blurring, so she does, and then Leliana's support is the _only_ thing keeping her upright.

Antivans are a passionate race, her mother would always say, and therefore also an emotional one. Doubly so when they're trying their hardest to be anything but.

 _The Inquisitor lives. Corypheus does not. On our way home._  
_\- Harding_


	2. In Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josie's age is (according to her writer) somewhere between 27 and 29, so I placed her neatly in the middle. The age of the Inquisitor, however, is purely my own headcanon. I also took some liberties with a cutscene and had the Inquisitor return to Skyhold while wearing armor, because I cannot find a logical explanation for a stop on the way to _change_.
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> Still one for angst, but much less so than in c1. Other than that... nah. Definitely still emotional, but this is mostly fluff, as well as a few traces of humor that I'm adding a warning for because I have had readers spit [insert liquid/foodstuff here] all over their monitors.

Skyhold still bustles, but now, in the reddening light and elongating shadows of a late afternoon, it's a very different type of bustle. Since the news of their victory (staggering, breathtaking, _impossible_ ) first arrived, it has spread within the castle like wildfire in a windstorm, and the excitement is bouncing back and forth between the walls, infecting everyone and creating an atmosphere that's a world apart from just a few, short hours ago.

Skyhold is _thrumming_ , and even the icy winds of the Frostbacks are useless against the warm smiles that now rest on every face. There are chants sung to the Maker, praises offered to the Dalish pantheon even from those who don't follow them, templars and mages are toasting each other and it's a whirling, wonderful vortex of life and unity.

Leliana's opinion is that it'll last precisely long enough for the novelty to wear off, and though Josephine isn't inexperienced enough to think that she's wrong, there is still... something. A niggle in the back of her mind that tells her that even if this fresh, rushing exultation won't last, they have still laid the foundation of something that may just end up revolutionizing Thedas. She could be wrong, of course, and perhaps she is, but there's little point in worrying over such things in their infancy.

She does need to occupy herself somehow until the Inquisitor and her party return, but she feels entirely too light to focus on her usual tasks, and truthfully isn't in the mood to join the remainder of the inner circle at the large table in the inn where Iron Bull is playing host. Mostly, she wants peace; ideally of the kind that comes part and parcel with Ellana herself. She, however, isn't expected to return until well after nightfall, so for now Josephine settles for the next best thing, and makes her way up the stairs to the Inquisitor's quarters.

The large room is quiet, though it does hold evidence of someone other than its inhabitant having been here by way of the large, wooden tub that – while still empty – has been placed in front of the dimly glowing embers in the fireplace. The large windows, too, are open just enough to stir the air and bring in the scents of snow and cold, and Josephine surveys it with a small nod; satisfied that the fire will be stoked and buckets of water brought up to warm by it when the outlying watch reports that the Inquisitor is in sight.

As per her own request, of course.

There is still... some small amount of unrest inside of her. Some minuscule part that doesn't fully dare believe that Ellana is safe until she sees it with her own eyes, but at least waiting for that has grown infinitely easier. _Breathing_ has grown infinitely easier, and she does just that as she seats herself on the sofa; slowly and deeply as she presses her face into her hands and just... prays. For a little while.

Defeating Corypheus was so unlikely, but the entire time she's spent with the Inquisition has been little else but a long series of almost hilariously unlikely events, not the least of which was falling in love with a Dalish elf. By all rights, the cruel rumors of 'savagery and brutality' should have cautioned Josephine into keeping her distance – they certainly did for the better part of their people for a good while – but rumors rarely have much to do with truth, and much like kindness, cruelty is anything but limited to species or race.

How many of those rumors will continue to be vanquished by the light of reality? And what will the outcome be, politically, for all those others whose ears are shaped like Ellana's?

Josephine certainly looks forward to finding out, and chuckles softly at the thought as she settles back into the sofa while her hand drops to the side of her own hip; just over the small space between the cushions. The familiar pattern of the fabric is enough to make her fingers twitch in remembrance, and there's the faint, phantom warmth of long fingers slipping between her own, of softness and strength against her skin, of an idle, silly conversation about the difference in skin tones. About bronze and... Hm.

“ _Copper?”_

“ _While you certainly do glitter in the firelight, my darling, it is hardly in that color.”_

“ _Spoilsport.”_

“ _I resent that!”_

_Laughter. Lips. Love. The curve of a smile against her own mouth._

“ _Ivory, then?”_

It really is ridiculous how a mere memory can make her heart flutter in her chest, especially when she thought herself to have outgrown this... this positively _adolescent giddiness_ by the time she reached her twentieth year; let alone her 28th. Given Ellana's bare 22 years, however, perhaps it was to be expected.

Only the sudden darkening of the room draws Josephine from her thoughts, and a glance towards the windows tells her that the sun has dipped behind the mountains far sooner than she expected. Maker, there are things she needs to oversee even now, and she really didn't intend to sit here and _daydream_ for as long as she apparently has. When she moves to rise, however, there is the crinkle of paper below her hand, and she pauses for only a bare instant before sinking back into the softness and slipping a folded sheet free from between the cushions.

> _Josephine,_
> 
> _Since I've started this over more times than I care to admit, let me first say that I have a whole new respect for what your position entails. Most think that words and writing are easy, because what could be simpler than putting your own thoughts to paper? I used to think that. I don't anymore. This is [an unusually large space, as if there was a long pause here] incredibly difficult._
> 
> _(And no; not just because my hand is cramping.)_

Ellana has wonderful assets (“And breast-ets,” Sera had cheerfully interjected once; passing by during a tour she'd been giving to some visiting nobles. “Go you, Ruffles.”), but fine penmanship, Josephine decides with a smile, isn't one of them. It isn't a matter of vocabulary or literacy – Ellana is easily one of the most eloquent people in the hold and seems to have a natural gift for language – but rather, she thinks as she tilts the paper towards the fluttering glow of the fireplace and studies the uneven lines (several of them have been done twice when the pen ran out of ink), it is a matter of practice, or the lack of it. The Dalish pass on their wisdom through spoken words rather than written ones, and a warrior has little use for calligraphy in the midst of battle.

And yet, here is a full page in Ellana's careful hand; imperfect, hesitant, and above all, honest.

> _Creators willing, you either won't find this at all because I get to it first, or you'll read it only after hearing that Corypheus has fallen. After learning that I haven't failed everyone and, with any luck, that the price of victory wasn't my life. But if I did or if it was, I'm sorry. I can at least say that my intention was anything but that. I don't want to die, but no one gets to choose when their time comes; we can only fight against it with all we have._
> 
> _If what I had wasn't sufficient, you've taught me enough about human politics to know that my words hold weight; that they will probably only hold more with me gone, especially in this way. You'll find several documents written and signed by me hidden in that crest of yours - there's a clasp below the left-hand side of the motto (and it was there when I found it, so not a word). I tried to think of everything but that wouldn't fit and time is short, so I can only hope that what I've put there is enough for you, Leliana and Cullen to keep the Inquisition strong._

The paragraph immediately below that has been rubbed out to obscure its contents, but Josephine wasn't a bard – however briefly – for nothing, and it takes little more than holding the paper at various angles to find one that lets the glow from the fireplace reveal the words.

> _Some part of me wonders if maybe [another long space, and a crinkle in the paper as if from a tight grip; the ink has even run some from what could be a harsh exhale] my passing now wouldn't be the better option for you, in the long run. Kick me for saying so if you wish--_

“Oh, I will,” Josephine murmurs. “You are entirely too stubborn, my love.”

> _\-- but you know there's truth to it. I'm no noble. I'm not even human. What in creation does a Dalish elf of unknown blood have to offer the heir to a line as old as yours? I can't even give you children of your blood to continue that line. I wish I could; I wish I could be everything that you deserve, but I can't, and so I should rightly withdraw and allow you to find someone who can. That choice, however, is yours. It always was, and I swear that I'll do everything in my power to keep Corypheus from taking that choice away from you._
> 
> _Would it be melodramatic of me to say that I'm doing this more for you than for Thedas? Probably. But it wouldn't exactly be a lie._
> 
> _I love you. Always._
> 
> _Ellana_

Outside, there is a series of whistles ringing between the mountaintops; far away, at first, as it travels from one watchpost to the next, and then close and sharp as it reaches – and is repeated by – the guard posted at the Skyhold bridge. One short, one long ( _riders), o_ ne long, calm note ( _friends),_ and finally, the high, soaring pitch of an eagle's cry that the soldiers insisted on assigning to their Inquisitor alone.

Josephine knows that even at a gallop, reaching the castle from the outer watch will take well over half an hour, so she doesn't rush to rise. Instead, she takes the time to wipe her eyes and dry her cheeks, and only then stands with a slow, shuddering breath; carefully folding the letter back up and placing it safely in a pocket by her waist.

Ellana is coming home, and Josephine _is_ going to kick her. Though she'll be nice and not do so in front of company.

xXxXx

Josephine wonders, somewhere in the back of her mind, if there is some cosmic significance to how all the truly emotional moments in her recent life seem to take place in firelight. Of course, she doesn't know why that would be the case and it's entirely possible that it's only because all those moments seem to involve Ellana, but she needs to focus on something other than the strengthening sound of hoofbeats, and that's as good a topic as any.

Leliana would never let her live it down if she lost her self-control enough to go sprinting down the stairs and through the courtyard; especially not in front of all these people.

The murmur of the crowd rises as the volume of the hoofbeats does, echoing in the cavernous gatehouse, and then the cheers begin. Those who hold torches lift them high, those who hold weapons raise them in a wave of shimmering metal, and there's a roar of a thousand voices ringing from ancient stone to ancient stone in a symphony of pride and welcome that sends chills shooting from the top of Josephine's head and down the length of her spine.

When the riders enter the courtyard proper, the roar only grows louder; aided now by the beating of swords against shields and the heavy stomp of numerous feet, and Josephine performs a quick headcount and breathes a soft sigh of relief when the number is exactly what it's supposed to be. The torchlight seems to intensify there, at the main gate; reflecting off of weapons and shields and polished armor and gleaming helmets and then – when one helmet in particular is removed – off of pale, mussed hair and a tired, but proud grin.

 _A warrior_ , Josephine thinks as she watches Ellana dismount (and sends Leliana a _look_ for the hand that's now holding onto the back of her belt, because honestly; she hasn't even _moved_ ). _But also a woman_ , clear in how gauntleted hands help an obviously weakened Morrigan to the ground before handing her over to the healers.

 _Above all else, a legend_ , she muses, and smiles when Iron Bull breaks through the crowd and Ellana ends up laughingly stumbling a few steps thanks to his exuberant, congratulatory clout to her shoulder. _And she doesn't even realize it, does she?_

Time is displaying another one of its peculiarities now; moving at once both breathlessly fast and achingly slow as Ellana moves through the parting mass under her own power. She's relieved of her sword and shield and helmet by starry-eyed, beaming pages and stablehands, and seems, more than anything, a little bemused at all the fuss. And no, Josephine decides; Ellana really has no idea what she means to all these people, what a symbol she's become, or how she's written herself into their hearts with the smallest of words and the simplest of actions.

Perhaps, in a few hundred years, the Herald of Andraste that became the Savior of Thedas (entirely without anyone purposely starting that, too) will hold a place in lore and legend next to Andraste herself. Josephine can almost see the scripture come to life before her eyes.

 _Fear ye not the Darkness, for I shall be your Light. Fear ye not the storm, for I shall be your shelter. Tell me of your burdens that I may lift them off you, for my blade is sharp and my soul is just, and all of Thedas I c_ \--

“Stop waxing poetic, Josie,” comes the low murmur by her ear; barely even audible under the cheers. “Your knight is approaching.”

Josephine only barely manages to suppress the startled cough, though there's no stopping the deep flush from rushing up her neck. Maker, but she _had_ to do that, didn't she? “ _Leliana_.”

“Shh.” The hand that was holding onto her belt lets go, and instead gives her back a little pat before retreating entirely. “Just enjoy the moment.”

Sound advice, really, and there are a lot of moments to enjoy. There's the one where the clouds part with uncanny timing and a beam of moonlight bathes Ellana at the exact second that she starts ascending the stairs; coloring both her hair and eyes and armor a pale, ethereal silver that all but glows in the darkness and sends a series of gasps through the crowd. There's the one a few seconds later where a sharp cry of _'Go get her, Inky!'_ just makes Ellana _stop_ and _turn_ midway through a step, and Josephine nearly has to bite her lip through to keep from laughing, because _Maker_ , what a blush.

“Don't squeeze too hard,” Ellana cautions in a whisper once she's reached the little plateau and they're breathing the same air. “You'll get poked.”

Another bit of sound advice, Josephine considers, and then thoroughly ignores it in favor of embracing her as tightly as she possibly can; prickly armor or not. There's a gentle huff of laughter next to her ear at that, followed by the tender folding of long arms around her back and gloved fingers pressing against her skin, and she draws in a long breath full of leather and metal and pitch and _Ellana;_ only scarcely aware of the cheers or Cullen's low chuckle, or anything that isn't the sturdy body in her arms or the whisper-soft touch of lips to her cheek.

“How long of a reprieve do I get before the party starts?”

The question comes shortly after they've entered the great hall, and Josephine muffles a chuckle as she walks. “I think you'll find that the party started quite a while ago, Your Worship,” she responds; including the title in deference to the people already dotted around the tables. “But I _have_ arranged for a bath to be waiting for you in your quarters, and I'll wager that you can take an hour or so to enjoy it.”

“Hm.” Those pale eyes are flitting around the cavernous hall; seeing much, and probably missing little. “I don't suppose you could arrange for your sparkling company as well, Lady Ambassador?”

Tempting. Veeery tempting. However. “Not at this time, Inquisitor,” she negates regretfully, and then, since they've passed the tables and have some small measure of privacy: “I think you and I are both aware that if I were to join you now, neither of us would end up attending the celebration.”

“I fail to see a problem with that,” Ellana tells her, and though she's smiling, there's a quiet exhaustion in her eyes. “I'd much rather be alone with you.”

“I know,” Josephine promises, and gentles her expression while briefly letting her fingers circle a gauntleted wrist. “As would I. But there are so many people who wish to congratulate you and to know that you're safe, as well as several friends who would probably appreciate the chance to speak with you before you retire for the evening. Please don't deny them that.”

“Mmph.” There's a sigh and the faintest hint of a scowl, and when Ellana's eyes close for a brief moment, the signs of fatigue are so painfully obvious that Josephine is all of five heartbeats away from telling the world to go hang itself and locking the both of them away for however long is necessary. When they open again, however, there's a fresh look of determination in them; a new supply of energy from whatever stores Ellana is drawing on. “I see your point,” comes the quiet admission, along with a wry smile. “But only for you, Josephine."

“Then I count myself both flattered and grateful.” The closest torch is guttering and dying, and she takes advantage of the additional darkness to rise up – since Ellana is standing on the first step leading up to the platform that holds the throne – and let their lips brush lightly. “Enjoy your respite, my love. I'll be here when you return.”

“That's hardly incentive to take my time,” is the return murmur, with gloved fingers settling on the back of her neck and the scent of the other woman suddenly so close and so concentrated that it almost makes Josephine's head swim.

“Nor is the thought of you in the bath particularly conductive to clear and reasoned thought for me,” she breathes, and folds her hands in front of herself instead of wondering how, exactly, one would go about unclasping that armor. “Do go, please, before I change my mind and let you drag me off.”

And with a thoroughly amused lift of her eyebrows and a little bow, Ellana does. Though she does also halt at the door to her own quarters for several heartbeats; one hand on the handle and the other one held to her out in wordless invitation.

 _Brat_ , Josephine mouths at her, and gives her head a fond little shake at the crooked grin and the faint shrug she gets in reply before that door finally opens, and then closes once more.

“Ah! My Lady Ambassador!”

Duty first, Josephine reminds herself, and takes a long, silent breath before turning. “A pleasure, Your Lordship. How may I be of assistance?”

Only a few more hours.

xXxXx

Of course, those 'few more hours' end up extending into an almost obscene amount of time that sees the candles replaced at least twice while the celebration lengthens. Josephine can hardly blame the revelers; it's been a long, dark time for all involved, and it's predictable that everyone wants some small sliver of the Inquisitor's attention while the glory of her victory is as fresh as it comes. Damned if it isn't impractical though, since Ellana left for the temple well before sunrise, and as such has now been up for over a full day.

Several of them have been up for the same amount of time, of course, but she's quite certain that only a scarce few spent a good amount of that time engaged in face-to-face battle with a god. If Josephine herself is this tired, she can only imagine how exhausted the Inquisitor must be, and so she's kept her in her peripheral vision throughout the night. There has been several times where Ellana has looked to be on the verge of collapse – several times where Josephine has started off in her direction for that very reason – but it's always been followed by a moment of quiet resistance; a brief closing of those eyes, and somehow, there's always been a little more strength for her to draw on, after that. Another supply of energy from those unknown reserves that she manages to dip into, somehow.

Now, however, the hall is emptying at long last, and Josephine makes her excuses when she catches sight of the Inquisitor heading up those few steps again. It doesn't take much; she doubts that the baron she's been talking to is even sober enough to realize who she is at this point, and while his aide could undoubtedly have helped with that, last she saw that young man he was sound asleep beneath one of the tables; curled around a wineskin.

“May I join you?” she questions when she manages to catch those eyes; not that she's expecting the answer to be anything but a 'yes', but asking _is_ the polite thing to do, after all.

The reply isn't a verbal one. It is, in fact, little more than twinkling eyes half-hidden behind fire-gilded hair, than bare hands catching her own and tugging, than a smile, and a quietly opening door, and the shift from an echoing, torch-lit hall to a peaceful, shadowy stairway while her stomach gives a pleasant, little flip. There's a slight spin when they clear the doorway, and she only barely sees the door close halfway on its own because there's a cool wall behind her and a warm body gently pressing her against it and, and...

And oh, _Maker_ , this kiss. The sweetest kiss she could ever imagine, with the incredible softness of fine hairs between her fingers, the secure hold of strong, slender arms around her and the rush of warm breathing against her skin. With the dizzying closeness of soft curves, the lingering scents of spices and pitch and woodsmoke, and the wine-tinged sweetness of Ellana's breath in her mouth.

“Now _that--_ ” is the whisper against her lips when they finally part. “-- was worth waiting to get you alone for.”

Josephine giggles before she can catch herself, and then clears her throat and feels the flush crawl up her neck, even though the look in those eyes is nothing but completely and utterly charmed. “You do realize--” she comments a little breathlessly. “-- that we aren't _truly_ alone until that door is shut?”

Ellana blinks once, twice in confusion, and then – after turning her head and giving the intruding sliver of light a glare as if it personally insulted her – reluctantly disengages.

Josephine leans against the wall with her arms crossed, and - once the door has closed fully and she's managed to catch her breath somewhat - places a swift, well-aimed kick to Ellana's rump with the sole of her shoe. Not hard, of course; barely a tap, but enough for the younger woman to feel it, and for those blue eyes to widen as Ellana spins on her heel.

“What was _that_ for?!”

“That--” She fishes out the letter and holds it up between two fingers. “-- was for thinking that you are anything _other_ than everything I could have ever dreamed of.”

“Ah.” A hot flush that's strong enough to be visible even in the low light, and a duck of the pale head. “I should've figured you'd be able to read that part.” She doesn't seem surprised that Josephine found the letter, but she did spend a good amount of time alone in her own quarters earlier, and so, of course, would have had the chance to check for it. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” The question catches her so off-guard that she actually just _freezes_ in place on her way up the stairs, and since Ellana manages to take a few more before she notices, Josephine ends up looking _up_ at her for once, when she turns. “Why in the world would I be angry with you?”

“I'm... not sure,” in a mumble that's halfway a question, and in the shadows, she can only barely see the motion of long fingers combing through fair hair, and make out the small, uncertain shuffle of booted feet. “I mean, you did kick my ass. Literally.” A faint smile. “But-- I don't know. You'd tell me if you were, right?”

Sometimes, Josephine reflects, it's so easy to see nothing but the Herald, or the Inquisitor, or the Savior; to see only the confidence of a woman who wields a blade like a master, or the poise and might of one of the most powerful, political figures in Thedas. So simple to see only that, and to forget that behind the courage, the strong shoulders and the quiet nobility, there is a person like anyone else; young, a little shy, a little nervous, and clearly more than a little unsure in what's possibly her first, truly serious foray into matters of the heart.

“I would,” she promises, and climbs the few steps needed for her to catch a few, unruly locks of soft hair on her own fingers and gently guide them back into place behind a pointed ear. Ellana quite literally _shivers_ at her touch, and when there's the softness of a smooth cheek under her hand and the warmth of calloused fingers curling around her wrist, Josephine reminds herself to remember both the person _and_ the uncertainty, because there are _no walls_ behind those eyes, and she could scald this woman with simple words. “And I'm not angry, my darling. Merely relived, and thankful--” A pause; filled with the softness of those lips and the slow glide of a light touch from her wrist, up along her arm, over her shoulder and into the fine hairs at the base of her skull. “-- and very, very blessed.”

“And maybe a little overtired,” is the murmured addition; accompanied by smiling eyes when Josephine gives a surprised, little laugh.

“That too,” she allows with a dip of her head, and lets those fingers twine with her own as they proceed up the stairs, side by side. “I wanted to catch you--” she begins when they reach the top of the tower and step into the pale, morning sunlight, and then stops herself and tries to think of a phrasing – of a sentence – as Ellana leads her across the floors and onto the balcony. “The celebrations appear to be winding down with the sunrise.”

A change of subject. A retreat, somewhat, because she can't quite find the words to explain that while she _wants_ , she doesn't _expect_. So she backs off, just a fraction, and settles her hands on the stone railing; considering, still, but also taking in the majestic view and the gold-painted mountaintops, and how, she realizes suddenly, the dawn has truly come.

“I've never witnessed such a lovely sight,” she breathes, and only turns her head when there is the warmth of a hand beside hers. The golden light is painting that face; spilling over fair hair that moves gently in the breeze, casting soft shadows over that nose and those lips, and glittering in the fine, almost invisible hairs on Ellana's cheek.

And those eyes are smiling directly into her own. “Nor I.”

Two words. Two short, simple words, and her heart is beating against her ribcage in maddening, exulted flutters that steal the breath from her lungs. Honest, straightforward and so, so effortless, and she idly reflects that there's probably luck to be found in the fact that Ellana is usually fairly sparse with her speech. Josephine doubts that she would survive if she was a chatterbox.

“Sometimes,” she sighs. “Your words are so sweet they ache.”

“That's love,” Ellana tells her.

“That's _you_ ,” Josephine corrects, and catches those hands in her own as they face each other in the light of a new day, and a new world. “It's been good to have this celebration, free of what the future holds.” It is, as she knows well, only a momentary respite from the demands of Thedas; from the rifts that still need sealing, from the work of cleaning up after wars and demons and deceit, and from the fresh weight that will undoubtedly fall squarely on the shoulders of the young woman before her. “Whatever awaits us,” she promises softly. “I know only one thing; I would never have you face it alone.”

“Fitting,” is the answer, with one hand snaking free to cup her cheek instead, and a warm forehead touching against her own. “Because I wouldn't want to do this without you.”

Their words feel strangely like vows, some part of her muses as they kiss softly amidst cold breezes and slowly strengthening light. But really, she's getting ahead of herself. It's far to soon to even think in such terms.

“Would you be terribly disappointed if I said I needed to sleep?” Ellana wonders a few moments later, with one hand rubbing at the back of her neck and the other keeping a loose hold of Josephine's own. “I really don't think I have enough energy left to...” Pause, and the catch of a lower lip between even teeth. “Uh...” There's a hint of extra color blooming in her cheeks, and her gaze drops to the floor of the balcony before lifting again in supplication. “Um...”

“'Perform', I believe, is the word the soldiers use,” Josephine supplies dryly, and then has to swiftly hide her smile behind one hand because Ellana's entire face turns a brilliant enough red to rival that of a sunset; all in the span of a single heartbeat.

“Ah...” A short, helpless laugh, and the heel of a palm pressing against a flushed forehead. “Yeah. That.” There's a long pause as Ellana settles her elbows on the railing and scrubs her hands over her face, and when Josephine can't quite manage to hold back a chuckle, there's a half-hearted glare aimed her way from between two fingers. “Ye Gods and little fishes.” That in a mutter, and then Ellana drops her hands and studies her. “Would you? Be disappointed?”

“Never.” It's the easiest answer she's ever given to anything, and it falls from her lips without hesitation as she leans on the railing as well, with the warmth of another body at her side and – after a moment – the slight weight of a head resting against her own. “Would _you_ mind terribly if I slept here, regardless?”

“Of course not.” The reply sounds mildly astonished that she'd even ask. “Isn't that why you took that drawer?”

“Which drawer?”

A drawer in Ellana's quarters, as it turns out; filled with neatly folded clothing and sashes and Maker knows what else, all unmistakably hers. Not all of her things, obviously, but enough to spend a night – possibly more – without having to retrieve or send for anything from her own quarters.

“I didn't--” Josephine is frankly feeling a little off balance. “I mean, if this is acceptable to you, then of course I-- but--” She sighs, and settles a plainly confused glance on Ellana, who's leaning against the wall on one shoulder a few feet away, with her arms crossed, her legs folded at the ankles and an expression of polite interest on her face. “This isn't my doing.”

“Huh,” is the sole reply, accompanied by a faint furrow between the golden brows.

Both of them study the open drawer for several moments, and then, Josephine assumes from the way they manage to look up and raise an eyebrow at each other at the exact same time, come to the same conclusion.

And Ellana laughs. “I was wondering what it'd take for me to earn Leliana's approval,” she comments with a shake of her head, and then frowns. “Actually, remind me to ask her exactly _what_ I did, because I still don't have a clue, and I'd honestly like to know.”

Josephine chuckles in wry agreement, and takes a moment to run the tips of her fingers over the contents of the drawer. Even some of her nightclothes have been sorted in here, she discovers, though when she goes to retrieve them, there is the soft sound of footsteps, and then a hand covering her own.

“I don't suppose you'd agree to sleep in the nude?” is the question when their eyes meet. “Not th-- I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine. I just...” A frustrated sigh. “I'd really like to have you as close as possible. If that's okay.”

 _If that's okay_. Josephine mainly wonders on earth it could be anything but, though her only outward reply is a brief press of her lips to a faintly pink-tinged cheek, and a soft: “Of course.”

It's... almost awkward; the low sounds of two pairs of feet and the quiet shuffling as they both divest themselves of their clothing. Almost, but not quite, because the air between them is filled with a gentle sort of curiosity rather than the weight of sensual anticipation, and it probably doesn't hurt that Ellana treats at least her own nudity with about as much fanfare as she would a passing cloud.

Not that she has the faintest thing to be embarrassed about, Josephine considers, and has to remind herself to take a breath when Ellana crouches in front of the fireplace in nothing but her breeches; stoking the embers and adding logs until the crackling flames are sending reddish flickers of light over the gentle dips and curves of her exposed shoulders.

And speaking of which... “Do I want to know why – or rather _how_ – you are so evenly tanned?”

A turn of the pale head until Ellana's profile is clearly outlined against the fire, and a smirk. “Oh, I doubt it,” is the amused reply. “But I'll tell you anyway, if you want.”

Josephine weighs the potential headache that information could cause against the amount of energy she herself has left, and decides to err on the side of caution. “Another time, perhaps,” she sighs, and unhooks the last clasp that lets her remove her dress. Behind her, there's the muted thump of what's probably Ellana's breeches bring dropped somewhere, followed by the soft patter of bare feet against stone.

“Tunics and pants are where it's at,” Ellana whispers against the shell of her ear, and then kisses the skin just behind it. “So much faster and easier than dresses.”

“You're welcome to assist me, if you wish,” Josephine offers.

“Nuh-uh,” comes the drawl from behind her; a little softer as those footsteps move further away. “I'm taking notes.”

“Notes?”

“Notes.” There's the soft sound of skin against fabric, and a glance over her shoulder tells her that Ellana has slipped under the covers and is now resting the side of her head in one hand as she watches. “Though with all the clasps and buckles you seem to favor, I _should_ probably be drawing diagrams.”

“Tch.” Josephine rolls her eyes at the gentle tease, and lifts one foot onto a chair to remove the lone stocking that – aside from her smalls and her breast bindings – is the only item of clothing keeping her from being completely bare. That done, she straightens, and reaches behind her head to loosen the clips and ties binding her hair with a few, practiced motions that soon has the loose waves falling into place at the middle of her back. She doesn't turn until she's fully exposed to the slowly warming air, and that's probably a good thing since the look that's facing her is so heavily lidded and _intent_ that her heart skips three beats in a row.

“You know...” Ellana takes a breath and wets her lips, and the hand that isn't supporting her head is flexing slowly against the top of the covers. “If there's one thing I regret about defeating Corypheus earlier, it's the fact that I can't beat him up again _now_.”

“Flatterer,” Josephine accuses warmly, and smiles when she slides into the bed and is immediately immersed in warm skin and soft lips, and the tickling glide of Ellana's hair against her chest as the younger woman hovers over her.

“It's not flattery if it's true,” is the murmur against her mouth when they part, and while the look in those blue eyes is admittedly a little frustrated, it's also undeniably warm and not just a little wryly amused. “Later?” Ellana sighs.

“Later,” she smiles, and draws her in for another, light kiss as their legs twine. “Sleep, my love. It's been a long day.”


	3. In Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The taglist would pretty much explode if I included everything there, so 'smut' has been expanded on in the warnings. Sorry for the wait, but writing smut takes me... Well, an age.
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:**  
>  Still the barest traces of angst as well as mentions of jealousy, but also a healthy helping of loving!smut. Additionally, in no particular order: experienced!Josie, (somewhat)inexperienced!quizzy, biting/marking, _extremely_ sensitive elfy-ears, and a tiny bit of body-worship.
> 
> In short: _Definite and absolute nosebleed warning! Do **not** read in public!_

Going by the angle of the sun and the length of the shadows, Josephine judges the time to be somewhere around noon when her eyes flutter open. There is a decent chance of her estimate being off, of course, since most of the heavy curtains have been drawn to keep the Inquisitor's quarters both darker (by keeping the light out) and warmer (by keeping the heat in), though the single, wide stripe of sunlight spilling across the floor where one curtain has been pulled back does provide enough light to see by.

The bed, she realizes, is empty aside from her, and she lifts herself onto her elbows and turns her head towards the uncovered balcony door that's causing the spill of sunlight (and, she notes as the covers slip to the center of her back, also a brisk snap of cold air). While the sight of Ellana standing directly in front of the wide-open door – naked as the day she entered this world –  _does_ make her relieved that no one aside from perhaps a passing bird can see her, it also puts a smile on her face that she's helpless to resist.

There's something undeniably charismatic about the easy confidence with which Ellana carries herself, Josephine decides for anything but the first time as she traces the dips and bumps of subtle muscularity beneath feminine softness with her eyes; shifting onto her side for a better, less restricted view. Something about the simple, clear fact that Ellana is  _at home_ in her own skin; that there's an innate belief in the abilities of her body and what that body can accomplish that infects those around her, and irresistibly leads them into believing in her, as well.

And of course it doesn't hurt that she's unreasonably attractive, though Josephine allows that in that, she could be just a little biased. Since that bias is the reason she's even in her current position, however, she simply takes the chance to study Ellana in detail; from the smooth rounding of her shoulders to the shallow dip of her spine; from the distinct narrowing of her waist to the slow flare of her hips and the gentle curve of her rear. She isn't especially tall – stands, in fact, over an inch shy of Josephine's own height – but she is so delightfully  _proportionate_ , with every limb seeming to be just the right length, and muscle and bone and skin somehow just... fitting together. Perfectly.

It's a small wonder that the majority of Skyhold is halfway in love with her, Josephine considers, and then has to squelch a grin as she reminds herself to never, ever,  _ever_ tell Ellana that particular bit of information, because she has an exhaustingly large blind spot where her own appeal is concerned, and the poor thing's head would probably explode.

And her contented, lazy admiration is being sensed now, it seems, as the fair head turns and those blue eyes track to hers with a smile that crinkles the barely visible  _vallaslin_ around Ellana's left eye.

“Good morning,” Josephine murmurs.

“Good afternoon,” Ellana corrects with a half-grin; turning a little in place to better face her. “You just missed a visit from our friendly, Skyhold staff,” she offers; one hand gesturing in the general direction of the fireplace and the buckets of water now set to warm in front of it.

That information is enough to raise Josephine's eyebrows. As well as those of the servants, she wagers, if theirs didn't simply leap off entirely. “And you let them in like  _that?_ ”

Ellana clears her throat. “Didn't really think about that part until it was too late,” she admits wryly. “But... I lived, they lived.” A smirk, and a cant of the fair head that sends a ripple of tousled hair to spilling over her shoulder. “You slept.”

“Wonderful.” She dutifully ignores the soft snicker as she turns onto her back and settles one arm over her eyes, and resigns herself to the fact that Ellana's physique is probably going to be the chief topic of Skyhold gossip over the next few days. Not that there's anything truly novel about that, or that she can blame the gossipers for it, but there is a...  _tug_ , low in her chest, at the thought of someone else seeing Ellana in this way.

And it's childish, she berates herself, because it's obvious that to Ellana, the idea of exposed skin – even outright nudity – holds no erotic connotations whatsoever unless context calls for it, so there is no  _cause_ for her to feel jealous. Ellana wasn't raised to cover herself and only let the odd lover or healer see her fully bare, and finds nothing but genuine enjoyment in the warmth of sunlight on her skin when she spars in little other than her breeches and her breast bindings in the middle of the courtyard.

(Josephine remembers the distinct lack of tan lines in the firelight, and pushes the thought away before she can chase it.)

By Orlesian, Antivan or simply  _human_ standards, Ellana is... not entirely civilized (she's too strong-minded; too willing to question the same rules that others merely accept). In spite of that – or perhaps because of it – she is the least barbaric person Josephine has ever met, and it really isn't fair of her to be upset over something so trivial. It's unreasonable, it's petty, and, she reminds herself as her jaw clenches, it's  _childish_ .

“Something's bothering you.”

It's also entirely too obvious, apparently, to a young elf who really is far more perceptive than she usually lets on.

“Mm, headache,” she hums in response; moving her arm enough that she can watch the sunlight paint that lovely form, and study the delicate ripple of iron under silk as Ellana shifts. “Not enough fresh air last night, I fear.”

It's clear that Ellana sees straight through her little white lie; mainly in the way her eyes narrow, and in the faint tension at the corners of her mouth. That, however, is followed by an ever-so-slight dip of her head, and a loosening of her shoulders as she folds her arms and leans back against the frame of the door with an exhale that isn't quite a sigh.

' _Alright; I'll back off_ ,' that look says. ' _For now.'_

Strange, she thinks, how these little things never really made it to the forefront of their interactions until now. Of course, stopping an age-old, darkspawn magister from ascending to his self-proclaimed godhood  _has_ taken precedence in all the time they've known each other, so perhaps it's not so strange after all. Now that there's a modicum of peace, though, there may be time for them to discuss... several things. Time, too, for Josephine to take a closer look at the letter that lies unopened in her quarters and has for some time; addressed to her in her mother's distinctive script and certainly sent late enough for both Yvette and the house of Otranto to have mentioned things that she herself hasn't quite known how to bring up.

A woman  _and_ an elf. Josephine swallows back a sigh and lets her arm drop to her chest; fingers curling around the edge of the covers that rest there. It's not that she regrets the romance between them – how  _could_ she? - but there's no denying that to outside eyes, Ellana is hardly a suitable match, no matter how powerful a figure she is. The subject of an heir, especially, is going to be interesting.

But there's little she can do about it right now, and it really is much more enjoyable to study the play of light and shadow across sun-burnished skin, anyway.

“A lovely view,” she offers; voice soft in the peacefulness of the half-darkened chambers.

“Hm?” Ellana's face turns from mountains outside and back towards her. “Ah, yeah. Probably what I like best about this room, really. It feels like I can see all the way to th--” She must have noticed the small, amused smile pulling at Josephine's lips, because she stops there, and glances down at herself. “Oh.” A brief huff of laughter, and little more redness in her cheeks. “You mean me. Right.”

“Mmhm.” It may be a little hedonistic, but the bed is remarkably soft and it really would be a crime for Josephine not to allow herself a good stretch. So she moves through one; slowly, with one hand tangling in her hair and the other reaching over her head as her back arches. If the motion just so happens to drag the covers down a little lower on her body, that is, of course, simply a happy accident. Extending muscles that have gone a little sore from too long a day and too short a night does feel good, so she sighs, too; soft and long, and flexes first one leg and then the other in lazy, half-kicks that effectively expose her torso down to the tops of her hips.

_Definite_ interest in those blue eyes, now, as she relaxes back into the pillows. In fact, she can make out the faint motion of Ellana's fingers flexing against her own arms.

“A comment, Inquisitor, if I may?”

“What?” Three blinks in rapid succession, and a hasty lift of those eyes until they're meeting her own, followed by a faint, puzzled frown; probably at her use of the title. “Of course, Josephine. Freely; you know that.”

She purses her lips to suppress the smile, and lets her head roll a little further to the side while her right hand splays over the skin just below her navel. “It really is quite foolish to stand there in the cold when you could let me warm you up.”

A sharp exhale accompanies the slight, forward jerk in Ellana's shoulders; as if her reaction is so immediate and so powerful that it's all but a physical hit. She straightens, however, and there's an altogether more heady play of light and shadow as she closes the balcony door with a careful hand. “I suppose you're right.”

Her voice is several notes lower in pitch than normal, Josephine determines with a little shiver, though certainly no less compelling as she stalks – and that  _is_ the word for it – over to the bed; crawling onto it in a captivating display of sinuous motion until she can see exactly how dark those blue eyes have grown, and smell the faint hint of frost still clinging to her skin. She does catch those fingers, though, when they reach for her...

And sighs. “Accustomed to the elements or not, I demand to know how your hands remain warm after standing in that icy breeze for so long.”

That earns her a sharp, upwards jerk of both golden brows, followed by a decidedly wicked grin. “Must be the company I'm keeping,” Ellana drawls, and while Josephine does want to roll her eyes at that response, she's thoroughly distracted by the trace of a rounded fingernail over the inside of her wrist. It's only the faintest of touches but still enough to send tingles up the length of her arm, and she considers that she could possibly be in... a little over her head.

What a lovely way to drown, though, she decides, and smiles when the fair head dips enough for their lips to brush. There's a hand settling on her waist;  _there_ and light and yet somehow also scorchingly hot against her bare skin, and when Ellana's hair falls around them in an almost-silvery curtain scented with the sweetness of vandal arias, Josephine's fingers sink into those soft strands and pull her closer.

She tastes, Josephine realizes, faintly of peaches.

“Where--” she murmurs as she nibbles at a full, lower lip. “-- did you find fruit? And how much were you wearing when you went looking?”

A wash of warm breath against her face, and their kiss breaks only because Ellana's smile is too wide. “I'm not  _trying_ to undermine your work,” she chuckles. “The staff brought a plate with them. Apparently everyone's nursing a hangover; no point in serving anything in the hall.”

“Ah.” That does help in beating down the slight clawing in her chest, and the rest... the rest is eased by the knowledge that while she might not be alone in her more intimate admiration, she  _is_ the only one to have this beautiful creature looking at her like this; with not only desire, but also affection and  _love_ . “I suppose that means we won't have to worry about interruptions, hm?” she muses, and brushes a handful of pale hair back.

“I g-- oh.” The soft, sudden sound comes when the backs of Josephine's fingers brush along the top edge of a pointed ear, and that reaction is certainly interesting enough for her to repeat the motion. So she does – slower this time – and Ellana's reaction is immediate. She shivers  _bodily_ ; her eyes fluttering closed and her teeth catching on her own lip, and the hand that's resting on Josephine's side curls just enough for her to feel the press of nails. “I... guess not.” A hard swallow, and Josephine traces the deepening flush on her face with her eyes, but doesn't still her hand. “Cre--” Short, sharp breath; hard enough for Ellana's nostrils to flare visibly. “-- _ators_ , that's... nh.”

“Yes,” Josephine murmurs, and only realizes how much her own breathing has picked up when she runs a careful fingernail over the lower edge of that ear and Ellana's arms tremble at the edges of her vision. “I can see that.” Those blue eyes are firmly – almost helplessly – shut now, and the hot, panting breaths that warm her own skin stutter harshly when she uses both her thumb and her index finger to slowly trace the very point. And if the mere touch of her fingers causes  _this_ , then what, she wonders, would happen if she were to lift herself up enough to--

“ _Gods!_ ” Ellana's entire body  _jolts_ forward at the first brush of her tongue, and her forehead drops to Josephine's shoulder while the hand she has on the mattress clenches into a fist with the sound of nails dragging over fabric. There's a spot of skin behind her ear where her racing heartbeat is just barely fluttering, and closing her lips around that spot for a curious suckle results in those shaking arms almost unlocking, as well as a deep, gasped: “ _Josephine_ ...”

_Maker_ , what that voice does to her.

“Are you always this sensitive?” she whispers, and tangles her fingers further in soft, pale hair as she gives the lobe a gentle, little nibble.

“Nnnno.” The low whimper almost makes it sound more like a question than an answer, and when Josephine carefully tugs the long hair back and to the side, she can see the flush of arousal extending down between Ellana's shoulderblades. “Only... only when you do--” A sharp nip and a long, mewling breath against the crook of her neck. “-- _that_ .”

“I suppose that's for the best,” she breathes; taking care to let her every word wash over the now-shimmering skin while her nails trace swirling patterns on the back of Ellana's neck. “It  _would_ be horribly impractical for you to react like this if a bear started nibbling at your ears.”

There's a shuddering, choked huff burning into the side of her throat, and the skin on the top of Ellana's back is trembling. “Making me laugh right now is  _extremely_ cruel,” she groans.

That, Josephine considers, is probably true. It  _is_ terribly cute, though. Ellana reacts to her touch so helplessly, and she wagers that she could quite possibly push her all the way to orgasm simply by doing this. A thought for another time, however, because there's entirely too much smooth skin on display for her to focus only on this small part of it. That decided, she gives the lobe another soft kiss before lowering herself back into the pillows, and promptly feels her heart leap in her chest when Ellana lifts her head in turn and those eyes are suddenly burning into her own.

They're dark. So,  _so_ dark; like the waters of the Rialto Bay in the dead of night. Deep and heavily lidded and just a little hazy, and being pinned by that almost predatory gaze is enough for there to be a sudden  _pull_ low in her belly; hot and heavy and  _wanting_ as Josephine parts her lips to draw in a shallow breath, and those eyes drop to follow the motion.

All from no more than a  _look_ . Should that even be possible?

Slowly, Josephine traces the tips of two fingers from the curve of Ellana's jaw to the point of her chin; curling her fingers under it and exerting just enough pressure to have those eyes focusing back on her own. “Have you done this before, my darling?” she murmurs, and brushes the pad of her thumb over the skin just below a full mouth.

“Um...” It takes a few seconds and few flutters of dark-gold lashes for Ellana to catch her meaning, and her fingers are tracing the lower edge of Josephine's ribs. “Sort of,” she replies. “I have, but not--” She frowns there, with her gaze shifting off to one side as she mutters in Elven in what's probably a rare attempt to find the appropriate word in Common. Josephine has a good idea of what she means, of course, but the sound of Ellana's native language spilling from her lips has always enchanted her, so she doesn't interrupt. “-- completely?”

About what she expected, then, though it's certainly also a vague answer. “Well.” Her fingers slip lower over the side of Ellana's throat, and come to rest at the spot where she can feel the powerful heartbeat thrumming against her skin. “Perhaps you'd show me, then, how far 'not completely' is?” The chuckle against her own mouth makes her smile, but she huffs anyway. “Really, I don't see what's so amusing,” she scolds, though that's a little difficult to do while those soft lips are nipping at her own. “I'm merely acquiring information.”

“Uh-huh.” Clearly, Ellana is anything but convinced; evident in both the thoroughly entertained glow in her eyes and the faint tug at the corner of her mouth when she pulls back enough for it to be visible. “In that case, with hands...” The tug becomes a full ( _impish_ ) smile when her palm slips over Josephine's hip and causes a small, impatient shift. “Here.” Long fingers curl warmly around the inside of her thigh; thumb stroking lazy circles in a spot that's certainly  _close_ , but not quite close enough.

Josephine isn't entirely sure if that fact is more relieving or frustrating.

“But...” That voice captures her again, and there's a pooling of light and shadow; a dip and  _glide_ of skin against skin as Ellana presses against her. “Also here.” The hand on her thigh pushes before a leg settles between her own and  _there is not enough air in the room._

“Mm-- hm.” Breathing is difficult – thinking is near impossible – but she manages somehow, and feels the silk of skin under her own hands while scorching lips trace the tendons in her throat. “With... or without clothes?” she gets out.

“With.”

“And for--” The brief sting of teeth at her pulse point makes her inhale sharply, and when her fingers tighten in Ellana's hair, the hands that cradle her hips just pull her closer. “-- how long?”

“Not long enough,” washes over her skin in the wake of hot, moist breath, and when that solid thigh slides against her with an agonizing lack of pressure, Josephine pushes her head back into the pillows and bites her own lip  _hard_ because by the stars, she would personally destroy  _anyone_ who dared to-- “You?” A pause there, in both body and mouth, as if Ellana realizes that her attentions may be just a little distracting.

“Without.” There's no point in her being anything but honest, after all. “And – in your terms – long enough.”

There's a sudden, abrupt stillness of the warm body in her arms; a slow, controlled exhale and the faintest of trembles in those strong shoulders. “Male or female?” Ellana then questions, in the tone of voice that she normally reserves for particularly uncomfortable discussions in the War Room.

“Yes,” Josephine replies simply, and combs her fingers through the soft hair.

Ellana's breathing stops for a bare instant, and there's the slight flex of fingers; of nails pressing into her skin. Then, a...  _surge_ ; a sharp tightening of the hold on her, a sound that's somehow both a whine and a  _growl_ , and Josephine is snapping for air when that mouth claims hers in a deep, hard kiss that's lips and tongue and  _teeth_ as she's pressed into the mattress. She's mewling; arching into that warm frame, and Ellana just pushes her down harder with firm, possessive hands and the hot rush of uneven breathing.

There's a forehead resting against her own now, and Josephine is trying to catch her breath as she stares up into twin irises of perfect blue. It is, some corner of her still-whirling mind whispers, not unlike staring into the heart of a glacier, because that gaze is cold as ice and yet also... soft, somehow; as if underlaid by gently lapping waters. It's an angry look, but not, she decides as she shifts her hands enough to let her thumbs trace the skin below those eyes as they close slowly, and wonders what the cause of that... frustration? Yes, frustration... is.

“Ellana?”

“I really--” A hard breath, and a thoroughly dour glare when the blue eyes open. “--  _really_ don't like that thought.”

Ah. Josephine manages not to smile, and instead kisses her again; softly this time. “I don't enjoy thinking about you with someone else, either,” she admits, and watches her words make the swirling discontent in those eyes lessen to tender understanding. “I'm afraid that I have a distinct jealous streak, my love, and that you inspire it in increasingly unreasonable ways.” It's halfway a warning, if she's perfectly honest, and yet the only reaction she gets is a smile; not one she can see – they're too close for that – but one that she can  _feel_ in the movement of skin under her palms. “The Antivan blood, I fear.”

“So what's my excuse?” is the dry answer, with Ellana's body relaxing imperceptibly as she sighs. “Because I don't have a single drop of Antivan blood in me, and the thought of someone else putting their hands on you is still enough to make me want to shred the nearest object into pretty, little ribbons.” There are fingers waggling in front of her face, as if to disperse the ribbons in question, and a distinct narrowing of those eyes. “Preferably with my sword.”

“Then do please stay away from the draperies,” Josephine quips, and feels her heart swell with affection when that causes one of Ellana's rare, full laughs; the one that makes her head fall back and her eyes close, and shows every one of those perfect teeth.

“You--” A hand is palming  _her_ cheek now, and her arms slip around lean shoulders in turn as their noses brush; their bodies close enough that they may as well be sharing a single skin when Ellana sighs again, though the sound is somehow different, this time. “No words,” she murmurs, and there's the brief, almost chaste press of a warm mouth against her own. “No words.”

Still, Josephine understands perfectly; knowing well by now that the less Ellana  _speaks_ , the more she  _feels_ . “Not so unreasonable, then?”

“Mm, maybe.” There's the brush of parted lips against her cheek, and the trace of fingertips over her side which is... quite distracting. “But if we're both unreasonable...”

True. She isn't about to let her jealousy have any kind of free reign, of course, but knowing that the sentiment is shared certainly makes it seem less irrational. Unlike, she considers, the response of her body when Ellana's touch skims – barely – along the back of her thigh. That, frankly, is so strong that it flies straight past 'irrational' and settles firmly in the region of 'really shouldn't even be possible' _._

“How do you always smell like lilies?” The words flow over her skin on the tail end of a long, slow breath; accompanied by that touch now slowly crawling up the  _front_ of her thigh, and while Josephine is perfectly capable of hearing what's being said, her comprehension is lagging significantly when Ellana both  _presses_ and  _pulls_ closer all at once. “You did in the hall last night and on the balcony this morning...” Another deep, lazy inhalation, with the tip of her nose tracing the side of Josephine's jugular and Josephine's head only falling back further. “And you do now.”

“Sssssoap?” she hisses weakly; voice breaking and back warping when those strong teeth close carefully around a patch of skin. “Wasn't I--” The flick of a hot tongue makes her have to suck in sharp breath, and her fingers press into the lean shoulders. “-- supposed to warm  _you_ up?”

A low laugh warms the skin over her sternum, and she can actually  _feel_ the crooked grin. “I'm not stopping you.”

Oh yes she is, the brat. And she knows it, too, going by the twinkle in those eyes when Josephine lifts her head enough to see it. That, she decides with a narrowing of her own eyes, is a definite challenge, and thankfully enough incentive for her body to come back under her own command; enough for her to catch that lovely face between her own hands and pull Ellana up until their mouths are meeting, and for the taste of peaches to invade her senses again, though in a much headier way, now.

A shift, then; a light push of her hand against the front of a bare shoulder, and Ellana moves easily, if not without a slight, amused quirk of her lips. Her hands hardly go idle, though, and Josephine only barely resists the urge to press closer as they half-tumble over; instead keeping herself just barely aloft on one knee.

“You are entirely too distracting,” she murmurs, and tastes the soft laugh on the back of her own tongue.

“I try.” Even teeth sink gently into her lower lip and tug, and if that alone isn't enough to have Josephine drawing in an uneven breath, the tingle of nails against the outside curves of her breasts certainly do the trick. Then the leg she's straddling lifts  _just enough_ and... oh,  _Maker_ , that really isn't fair.

“Stop that,” she chides, and frowns. Not because Ellana – after a brief flash of those teeth in a grin - relaxes into the mattress and folds her hands behind her head, but because of the thoroughly entertained look that settles on her face as she does so, and watches Josephine study her exposed body.

“If I were a trade agreement, I'd be terrified,” she quips.

“Hush.” Josephine gives her side a little tweak for that, but smiles at the chuckle. “Done distracting me?”

A lift of a single eyebrow, and a shrug of Ellana's shoulders. “For now.”

That's going to have to do, Josephine supposes, and slides down a little further on the mattress with a minute shake of her head. The covers are bunching behind her as her hands slip over warm skin, and there's the subtle lift of slender hips when Ellana sighs. There's so much available for her to  _explore_ in spite of the surprisingly slight frame – enough that it's actually a little difficult to decide where to begin – but the intake of air that accompanies the touch of her lips to the swell of a breast seems to indicate that her starting point is appreciated, and so her hands and mouth trace... everything. The smooth rise of collarbones, the hills and valleys that make up Ellana's ribs, the slow curves of her chest and waist, and the hard points of rosy nipples that pebble under her tongue as Ellana arches against her.

Her stomach, too, is a source of endless fascination to Josephine. Flat and with the definite solidity of muscle, but also soft and supple and smooth as satin beneath her lips, and she spends a good amount of time tasting the outlines of those abs as they tense and relax under her touch; dipping the tip of her tongue into every little groove.

Into Ellana's navel, too, which earns her a long, pleading groan.

“ _Doucement, mon coeur,_ ” she murmurs.

Ellana is apparently quite capable of understanding Orlesian even in this state. “Patience, my ass,” comes the growl, followed by a long-suffering sigh and the faint  _thump_ of her head hitting the pillows when Josephine lets her forehead drop to that firm abdomen and fails to suppress her chortle. “Are you  _trying_ to kill me, woman?”

“Only a little,” she assures with a wink, and studies the ripple of muscle when she bites gently at the skin above the small indentation. Ticklish, perhaps?

Later, though, because right now, there's the faint, but definite rise of slim hips under her hands, and while Ellana is undeniably adorable when she's frustrated, Josephine very much wants to  _know_ ... what this will be like with her.

It is, she finds, far beyond anything she has ever imagined. She's had  _lovers_ before, yes, but while she did love them in some way, she has  _never_ in her life loved like this. Not in this way where every sigh makes her skin prickle; where all it takes for her heart to leap in her chest is a low, almost startled moan and a hasty shift as one of Ellana's palms covers her own mouth.

“Don't,” Josephine tells her, and catches the wrist before tugging. “I adore the sound of your voice, and I don't get the pleasure of hearing it near enough.”

That earns her a short, breathless laugh, and the warm curl of fingers around her own. “Why do I think you'd say that even if I talked non-stop?”

“Presumably because I would,” she returns goodnaturedly, and smiles at the hard inhalation that stirs the air when she lays a careful bite to the inside of Ellana's thigh. “Relax, my darling,” she soothes, and admires the play of light and shadow over smooth skin as she explores gently. “I have no intention of breaking you.”

“ _Yes, you do_ ,” is the groaned reply, and there's a deep, purposely slow breath when her fingers are coated in warm wetness and Ellana's chest strains for the ceiling. “It'd be a cause for serious concern if it was anyone but y--  _nh!_ ”

Oh, Josephine definitely adores the sound of Ellana's voice.  _Especially_ like this; not loud – it rarely is - but faint and sighing and thick with the arousal that lingers in what little air remains between them. She adores how it breaks so deliciously when she twists her fingers, how the pitch wavers when her tongue traces careful swirls, and how the faintest glide of her nails makes even the softest breath tremble just like the skin under her hand.

She wonders, too, if the bodies of human and elven females are similar enough that she could curl her fingers  _just there_ and--

“ _Gods!”_

Apparently so.

In the shifting shadows cast by fire- and sunlight both, Ellana is a vision; a fair, ethereal apparition moving against the sharp colors of the bedding, and after replacing her mouth with her thumb, Josephine rises up enough that she can better see her. Enough, in fact, that she can reach one of those oh-so-sensitive ears when Ellana tosses her head to one side and her hands grasp at any part of Josephine's skin that is within her reach, and so she does; holding herself just barely aloft on one elbow as she ducks her head and feels those lean arms pull her closer until they're skin to skin.

The single, hoarse gasp is well worth the tremble in her own arm, and she realizes somewhere – between the heated breaths and the shifting bodies and the soft sounds of pleasure – that she's feeling almost feverish, herself. The knowledge only makes her redouble her efforts; makes her press  _closer_ until she swears that she can feel Ellana's thundering heartbeats in her own chest; makes her thrust and taste and  _suck_ at that flawless skin until Ellana's nails are leaving indents in her back and they're wound so tightly together that they may as well be one.

And Ellana was right, Josephine muses in a very distant manner as her lips pull another blooming mark into place on trembling skin, because in a way, she  _does_ want to see her break.

Even in release, Ellana is quiet; displaying far more with the shuddering tension of her body, the dig of her fingertips into Josephine's skin and the slight, obviously controlled press of her teeth into Josephine's shoulder than she does with her voice. She  _shakes_ in Josephine's arms, and for a single, timeless moment, her breathing stills entirely and only resumes with a harsh inhale as her entire body – much like a bowstring – tightens and then seems to almost  _snap_ when then back of her head presses into the pillows and her face contorts almost as if she's in agony.

“ _Josephine!_ ” she gasps – barely – and Josephine is so completely and utterly enraptured that even the act of breathing is secondary, because in those frozen seconds, Ellana is  _perfect_ . She is exquisite tension and quivering muscle; shimmering skin and mussed, flaxen hair; wide eyes and parted lips; harsh breaths against Josephine's skin and a burst of light in deep, midnight blue.

“I love you,” Josephine whispers against those lips, and swallows the choked cry with her own mouth when she curls her fingers tighter and feels strong hands scrabble for a hold in her hair, at her skull, on her shoulders as Ellana's entire body jerks; trying to press closer and pull away all at once. She holds her fast, though, and her own heart is pounding against her ribs at the soft sounds that she can practically  _taste_ ; higher and higher in pitch until there's finally stillness, silence, and the warmth of shuddering breathing.

Shaking fingers are moving up to cradle her face, and when Ellana sinks back into the pillows and those blue eyes are finally fully aware and meeting her own, the look in them is so much like awe that Josephine actually blushes.

“So that's what all the fuss is about, hm?” comes the breathless question as their foreheads touch, and Josephine's mouth quirks into a small, irrepressible grin.

“I'm glad you deem it worthy of 'fuss',” she teases, and trails her touch over warm, sweat-slicked skin.

“Oh, that was definitely fuss-worthy,” Ellana decides on the tail-end of a laugh, and still sounds remarkably winded for someone who spends so much time running from one end of Thedas to the other. “In fact, I'm gonna need some time to recover before I can even  _think_ of returning the favor.”

Josephine chuckles at that, and ducks her head enough for them to exchange a soft kiss. “I'm flattered,” she murmurs into it, and feels the twitch of a smile in response. “Perhaps a bath in the meantime, then?”

“If I can manage to stand, absolutely.”

She can, as it turns out, though admittedly, they do spend several moments kissing leisurely before either of them deign to move from the bed. Once they do, filling the tub is a shared task; both of them hefting and draining the buckets with Ellana only taking a short break to secure a small bottle of oil, and when she pours a dose of it into the water, the rising mist takes on the pleasant scents of citrus and lemongrass.

From the corner of her eye, Josephine watches Ellana card her fingers through her hair; slowly working out the tangles as she brushes it back and away from her face, and realizes that she's never actually seen her with her hair wet. Even on the occasions where she's returned in anything but favorable weather, the Inquisitor has usually taken some small amount of time to make herself presentable before venturing into her office. There was a time where Josephine had wondered if perhaps Ellana thought her to be a little too proper given how blasé she was about her appearance in front of others, but now, of course, she knows the true reason. Or can at least make a fairly accurate guess to it.

“Don't,” she asks, and covers the hand that's reaching for a ribbon with one of her own in exchange for a curious look. “I've yet to see your hair slicked with water, and I'd like to.”

There's a pause and a faint, considering tilt of Ellana's head at that, followed by a smile. “Of course.”

So that's how they end up in the tub, and Josephine is glad that it's a well-built one complete with a carefully sanded little seat on the inside as well as a small stepping stool that can be placed by the outside, because entering or leaving it without either of those would be awkward at best, and dangerous at worst. It's deep enough that with two people in here they're both immersed to the chest when they kneel on the bottom, which is what she herself is currently doing while Ellana remains standing behind her.

“The tattoo around your eye,” she starts, and fights the urge to fall asleep as strong, slender fingers work the water into her hair. “The... vallaslin?” The pronunciation gives her some difficulty, but the immediate response is no more than the brush of smiling lips against the top of her head, and a murmured repetition that subtly corrects her intonation.

“What of it?” Ellana then wonders; voice barely raising above the slow slosh of water as her hands first retract, and then return with a container of soft soap.

“It marks you as… belonging to one of the Elven gods, yes?”

“Of following Sylaise.” The scent of vandal arias starts to gently permeate the air around them as those long fingers work her hair into a careful lather, and Josephine smiles at finally discovering why that smell always seems to hover around the other woman. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” she admits, just a little wryly, and settles her hands on her own thighs as her eyes slip shut. “There’s so much I feel that I don’t know about you.”

“Hm.” The pensive murmur is low, and there are calloused fingertips circling slowly at her temples. “Ask, then. I have no secrets; not from you.”

Odd, how such a simple and straightforward statement of - apparently - fact is enough to make her breathing hitch. “Who is Sylaise, exactly?”

“The Hearthkeeper.” The warm water sloshes against Josephine’s skin, and then there’s the touch of soap-free fingers against her forehead; guiding her head back. “She gave us fire to warm ourselves, showed us how to spin ropes and weave clothing, and taught us how to treat injuries and illnesses.”

While that certainly explains the proficiency in healing that the Inquisitor's companions tend to discuss at length, Josephine somehow doubts that it's common for a  _warrior_ to follow that particular goddess. So she says so – over the sound of water being carefully scooped up and guided in trickles over her scalp – and smiles irresistibly at the soft breath of laughter.

“Correct,” Ellana agrees. “But I've never really worried about traveling unusual paths.”

“Why Sylaise, though?”

“Hunters tend to protect  _with_ violence,” is the answer, with careful fingers combing through her hair and working every remnant of the sweet soap free. “I wanted to protect  _from_ it, as well. Or at least be able to help in the aftermath.” She kneels in front of Josephine, then – facing her – and Josephine lifts herself onto the very edge of the small, built-in seat before claiming the container of soap, and wonders if she can possibly make the simple act of washing someone's hair at once as relaxing and thrilling as Ellana had so easily done for her.

The answer to that, she decides with a muffled chuckle when Ellana groans and slumps against her chest, is apparently an unequivocal  _yes_ .

“Is that why you elected to keep it?” she questions a few moments later; voice low as the tips of her fingers knead slowly at the back of her lover's skull.

“Hm?” She can feel the flutter of long lashes against her own skin; a brief, faint touch that ends when Ellana's hands settle more firmly on her knees and push down a little as she straightens enough for their eyes to meet. “Sorry; say that again?”

“You chose to keep this.” Josephine dips one hand into the water to clear the lather off, and only then uses her fingers to trace the decorative swirls around one very blue eye. “Although Master Solas explained to you what it used to be.”

“The mark of a slave.” Ellana's eyelids flutter slowly, peacefully closed at the touch. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because history is the study of change.” The answer is soft, and accompanied by the slightest quirk of those pale lips. “What once was is no more, and what is now only remains if we choose to let it.” There is a breath – long and warm against her own face – and then those eyes open again; deep and gentle and full of so many things that Josephine can't even begin to count them. “To me, it's a reminder of path I want to travel. It's only the mark of a slave if that is how  _I_ think of it.”

“And you don't,” Josephine surmises, with a smile of her own.

“No,” is the simple reply; brushing against her own mouth as Ellana noses her playfully.

There honestly should be some sort of rule disallowing someone so attractive from looking so thoroughly seductive; not that she particularly minds the view as Ellana pushes forward and upwards in a rush of mist and glittering, damp skin, but it does make it terribly difficult to think. That, of course, is in no way helped by the curious trace of calloused fingers against the sides of her ribs when her back settles against the side of the tub, or by having those eyes so close that she can make out every last one of a thousand shades of blue.

She's completely willing to resume her earlier exploration, of course, even more so when Ellana rises half out of the water; one bare knee settling on the small seat just shy of the apex of Josephine's thighs and her body gloriously exposed all the way down to her waist as she presses against her. Presses her  _back_ , in fact, until her head is resting against the edge of the tub; throat fully bared as she stares up into those burning eyes. So she reaches – cups a slender waist and traces the faint dips of firm muscle while Ellana ducks her head – and is stopped.

“No.” The word is soft, but hot; breathed against her ear as long fingers close around her wrists and move them away, and that pull low in her gut is back with a vengeance. “This time,  _you_ don't get to distract  _me_ .”

Is it possible to burst into flame while immersed in water? If it is, surely now is the time for it to happen, because her hands are being folded neatly around the edges of the tub while Ellana noses a few strands of slick hair away from the side of her throat, and when those wet lips latch on to her skin and  _suck_ , it's all Josephine can do to stay in her seat. Those fingers are moving, now; tracing over her arms and shoulders in the barest hint of tantalizing contact while Ellana's lips flutter like butterfly wings against the side of her jaw, and then – when Josephine swears that she's going to have to start being quite crude if the other woman doesn't just  _get on with it_ – there's the brush of agonizingly gentle fingers at the apex of her thighs.

“ _Maker,”_ she gasps.

“Not even close,” is the murmured reply against her breastbone, with Ellana's hair fanning out behind her as if it were some sort of halo.

Josephine lets her head drop back with a breathless laugh, and feels the smile against her skin when she relaxes and gives herself over to her lover's torturously curious intentions. Her fingers do clench around the edges of the tub, however, when there's an altogether different touch well below the surface of the water, and she wonders more than just a little distractedly exactly  _how long_ ... Ellana can hold her breath for.

As it turns out – 'long enough'.

 


End file.
